


Alive

by RenZai



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Grand Prix Final Banquet, How Do I Tag, Literally just the Sochi banquet from Viktor's POV, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenZai/pseuds/RenZai
Summary: Viktor can't remember the last time he felt truly, properly alive. That is, until a beautiful stranger makes the formal banquet a lot less formal and steals Viktor's heart in the process.





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Ummmmmm hi? This is my first work on AO3 and my first time writing fanfic in literally years, so the actual writing part felt good but the posting was super confusing and weird and I have a newfound respect for fanfic writers who post fics regularly. I really hope you enjoy, even though I had no idea what it was going to be about when I sat down to write.

I don’t know how I got here. Well, to be more accurate, I do know how I got here, which is the same way I always have. I must have won again, as evidenced by the gold medal hanging off my neck, that feels more like a noose every year. I know that I must have amazed the audience as always, I must have done enough right to fool the world into thinking that I can still feel anything at all. My face aches with the feeling of my forced camera-ready smile, and I hear myself laughing and charming the sponsors that crowd around me.

It’s strange, isn’t it, that I can do all this without feeling anything at all? That I can give the appearance of Viktor Nikiforov, once again the Grand Prix champion, even though I can’t quite remember what winning is supposed to feel like anymore. If I were alone, I might chuckle hollowly at the irony in the fact that the Living Legend hasn’t felt alive, not really, for at least three seasons now.

As it is, I can’t let anybody see this, this flaw in their perfect champion. Makkachin knows, of course, and Chris and Yakov surely suspect, but they’ve been tactful enough not to mention it. Little Yura was less tactful, getting up in my face last month and yelling about how “you can’t win the Grand Prix Championship if you can’t feel what you’re skating, geezer”. My camera smile flickers for a moment at the memory, because apparently I can and I did, and I politely excuse myself from the gaggle of admirers before anyone can question the imperfect expression that briefly appeared on my face. 

I make my way in some direction - it doesn’t really matter which, does it, if they all lead nowhere but another group of people - and pluck a glass of champagne off a passing server’s nearly-depleted tray. I don’t intend to drink it, I learned years ago that alcohol doesn’t cure the ache so much as postpone it, but at least it gives me something to do with one of my hands. I’d quite like to stare down into it moodily, but that doesn’t quite fit with the image of Viktor Nikiforov™ that I’ve spent years building up, so I just hold it in one hand and pretend to sip so none of the well-meaning people in the room feels the need to come up and talk.

Cristophe, of course, is not bothered by such things as ‘boundaries’, so I’m not terribly surprised when his hand grabs my butt and his breath ghosts over my ear. “Tired of all your adoring fans, cheri?” he purrs, and the pleasant expression I’m wearing turns into something approximating a genuine smile. He may not understand the concept of personal space, but he’s one of the few people who even tries to get close to me, and I appreciate it.

“I appreciate all of them, and you know that,” I retort automatically, because part of being Viktor Nikiforov™ was appreciating every one of my fans, no matter how stifling and vulture-like they may be. My face softens a little and I turn to face my friend, serving the dual purpose of removing his wandering hand and allowing me to be just Viktor. “But if I’m honest, I’m a little sick of these parties. Nothing ever happens, it’s just impeccable manners and decent champagne. I’m tired, Chris,” I add, quietly enough for just him to hear. My smile doesn’t slip enough for any cameras to catch, but I can see by the concern in his eyes that he’s noticed the dullness of my own.

“Ah, Viktor. I know,” he murmurs, more serious than normal. He doesn’t know, not really, but he’s trying to understand the things I can’t quite tell him. His hazel eyes focus on me for a moment longer, until I start to fidget from the observation. He looks pitying, and I hate it, and then his eyes travel over my shoulder and light up, accompanied suddenly by a nearly predatory grin. “There’s something that might cheer you up. Isn’t that blond kid one of yours?” he questions, obviously quite entertained suddenly.

I raise one eyebrow at him, then turn slowly in order to look at the center of the room. That does indeed appear to be little Plisetsky, the junior champion, who looks rather angry. That in itself is nothing unusual, he’s angry more often than not, but the reason for his anger seems different this time around. A rather inebriated-looking man in a somewhat unfortunate suit appears to be - challenging him? Goading him? Whatever he’s doing, it appears to be working, and Plisetsky stomps a foot before nodding angrily. 

The next several minutes happen very quickly. Someone has procured a boombox from somewhere, and the soft classical music that had been filling the banquet hall is replaced by something much faster and louder. Several of the snobbier guests and sponsors flee the room, muttering something about ‘children these days’ and ‘why, I never’. The man that had challenged Yura evidently decides that his suit jacket is far too constricting, and he tosses it into the crowd, where it’s caught by someone who cheers loudly. The   
remaining skaters and guests form into a loose circle around Yuri and the stranger, who proceed to engage in a rather impressive dance battle.

Chris leads me to join the ring of people, and I follow because I’m not sure what else to do. This is not what banquets are normally like, not in the least, and I’m quite out of my depth. I watch the two dancing, Yuri looking adorably determined but very clearly losing to his opponent, who is apparently quite talented and also far more attractive than his tasteless suit would suggest. A slow but genuine grin starts to overtake my face, and every move the man makes drags me just a little further out of myself. A couple moments go by and I laugh, loud and genuine, belatedly digging my phone out of my pocket in order to take pictures of this break in monotony. I get several good action shots before little Yuri begrudgingly accepts defeat, though I can tell he’s mentally swearing vengeance.

The challenger laughs delightedly but keeps dancing, and I take a second to marvel at his stamina before making a hasty decision. I shove my phone at Chris, hoping he understands the request to take more pictures, and then I enter the circle myself. It’s stupid and reckless, but at this point I’ll do anything to maintain this rare feeling of joy and life that I’m so unused to. I mirror the stranger’s movements for a minute or two, then he notices me and smiles brightly enough that I’m knocked breathless for a moment. And then we’re dancing, and his arm’s around my waist and then his hand is on my face and my heart is beating fast, our laughter filling the room, and I feel alive in a way I never have before. I can’t quite breathe, overwhelmed by the foreign feelings filling me up and taking me over, but it doesn’t seem to matter, nothing seems to matter except the beautiful man that’s dancing with me like it’s what he was born to do. And maybe he was, maybe both our lives were leading up to this moment, or maybe it’s a dream that I’m about to wake up from, but either way I can’t question it when I feel this much. 

After a far-too short eternity of feeling the most alive I ever have, the beauty collapses against me and I’m helpless to resist as he wraps his arms around me and starts grinding and I have no idea what’s happening and I’ve long since stopped caring. I vaguely realize that Chris has most of his clothes off and Yura looks angry enough to hurt someone, but all my attention quickly focuses back on the stranger who’s now looking up at me with huge brown eyes. He’s slurring something about a hot springs resort and me visiting and a dance battle and me being his coach if he wins, but I process it more slowly than I really should because my mind has been rather overwhelmed tonight.

I probably couldn’t speak if I wanted to, but I do consider it with all three of my remaining brain cells. I’ve never been to a hot springs before, and I’ve never coached before, but I’ve never felt this alive before either so really, maybe they could be related. And it’s no decision at all when he throws his arms around my neck and begs once again, “Be my coach, Viktor.” 

There is a beautiful, beautiful boy hanging off me looking like I hung all the stars, and I’m far too weak to deny him anything. I can’t possibly think anything through right now, the only thought that manages to fight through the fog in my mind is that “I am going to marry this man someday.”

It’s utterly ridiculous, senseless, not at all reasonable, but the last twenty minutes or so have been insane enough that it seems perfectly normal that the only coherent thought I have is the certainty that I’ll marry this stranger despite the fact that I don’t know his name or really anything about him. I can’t respond aloud, but he clearly takes my silence for agreement, because he cheers brightly before struggling out of his shirt and shoving it in my arms. I accept it automatically and clutch it to my chest like a lifeline, stumbling backwards as he dances away.

I look around for Chris, desperate to tell someone about everything I’m feeling, and see that he’s somehow managed to smuggle a pole into the banquet room. That in itself I would be willing to accept as just something Chris does, but then he climbs onto the pole and so does the brand new love of my life, and I make a noise that is probably not quite human. 

“Yura, I think I’m in love,” I breathe out, because little Plisetsky is the nearest person that I actually know the name of. I don’t take my eyes off the pole, because Chris’s nearly naked body is nothing new but the stranger’s is something that I want to look at every day for the rest of my life. 

Yuri, predictably, grunts in annoyance and kicks me hard in the shin. “Shut up, you old geezer. You didn’t even know who he was earlier today,” he snaps angrily before turning to get as far away from me as possible. I spare only a moment to wonder at the oddness of that statement, as well as to wonder why the kid is even still here at the party that has suddenly become less than kid friendly, before my full attention returns to the gorgeous man that’s accompanying my friend on the pole of questionable origin. 

He holds up Chris’s entire not-insubstantial body with seemingly no effort at all, and I make a strangled little whimper at the sight. I hurriedly take out my phone once more - Chris had evidently slid it back into my pocket at some point - and snap a flurry of photos, wanting to remember this beautiful sight. 

After several more incredible moments, the man wins the pole dance battle against Chris - no easy feat, I can attest - and some small part of my mind realizes that means I’ll be his coach. I nod dazedly to myself and lean back against a wall, staring as the two men stumble off the dance floor.

I really have no idea how the night got to this point. I came to the banquet hours ago, feeling as empty as I had for years, expecting it to be the same as every other banquet I’d ever been to. I ended up feeling alive, full, even happy, madly and immediately in love with a man I’d never met. I had no idea where we might go from here, but as long as I could continue to feel even a fraction of this, I would happily go to the ends of the earth. Or to Japan. Whichever was closer.

**Author's Note:**

> So I suppose that's that. Leave a kudos if you liked it, please validate me. Let me know what you liked or hated or even just rant about something totally unrelated in the comments, idek. Thanks for reading!


End file.
